


dis-un-truthful not un-drunks

by orphan_account



Category: Political RPF - UK 20th-21st c.
Genre: 100 percent au tbh, M/M, i have no idea its nearly 3am, njo shit wait its after 3
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-21
Updated: 2016-11-21
Packaged: 2018-09-01 06:17:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8612506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: turning up drunk at an ex's flat at 2am and constructing made up words with only negative prefixes





	

**Author's Note:**

> um

Oh for fucks sake. It’s 2am, he’s drunk off his tits (balls?) on vodka from the new 24 hour store down the road- mixed with that fancy gold roast instant coffee to give it a bit of a kick, in a way that incredibly strong alcohol doesn’t. 

“Hello? Gordon? It’s me!” 

And he’s standing outside a good friends’ flat in his pyjamas and a pair of wellington boots, it finally occurs to him to press the buzzer ,though, in his intoxicated state, he hits a few (4) wrong ones - eliciting a few (4) angry responses. He hits the right one, finally, and there’s a few moments of silence after the buzzer before he gets a response.

“Who is this? Its 2am!” says a gruff voice from the intercom; he jumps back in horror, suffering a bout of confusion (how is the house talking? Is Gordon trapped inside the soundy box? Who is this house and why is this house?) before remembering that soundy boxes can in fact make noise with the help of a talky human. Duh. 

He realizes that his talky human friend seems quite grumpy. Funny that, he always said he’s an early bird. Well, perhaps not this much of an early bird- anybody up at this time would probably come under ‘night owl’ instead. He wonders it’s not called a late bird, why’s the night one got a specific bird? That’s unfair, like there could be a morning rooster or something.

“Me!” he says, as if the sound of his voice down prickly line should give it away, and a sigh comes down from the other end of the communication system.

“What’s your bloody name?” intercom Gordon asks, however impolitely.

It’s at this point; Tony realizes that he’s forgotten his name- wait, Tony, that’s it.

“It’s Tony you stupid-face!” Tony slurs, as if he hadn’t forgotten his own name a few moments earlier.

The door he’s pulling on unlocks, swinging him around with it, he stumbles a bit and then hoists himself up, walking inside. Tony goes to knock on the nearest door, but is stopped by Gordon charging down the stairs, pulling him away from the door and up the stairwell.

“Why are you here Tony? It’s two in the morning?” Gordon whispers as he drags him up the stairs. Tony likes the feel of his hand, it’s very warm and big and soft and lovely- his hands summarize the man himself quite nicely. 

“I wanted to see you” he sings, dragging out the ‘oo’ way longer than any human being really should do (not to take the serious edge off it, it’s just that this is generally the effect that odd alcoholic concoctions have on him.)

Gordon opens the door to his flat and he drops Tony’s hand, so Tony, forever the subtle one, snuggles into his chest to compensate. The door shuts with a click behind them, the clacking of the keys as Gordon locks his door and a clonk as he checks the door handle.

“I don’t see why you couldn’t have come over a few hours later” He replies quietly, breaking the silence. 

Tony doesn’t say a thing, and they stand at the front door for a minute or two, silent. It feels like it used to; warm, safe and right- a stark contrast to what their relationship is now. He lifts his head from Gordon’ chest and attempts to examine his expression- with no avail of course; he’s a little too blurry for such a complex analysis of facial features. 

“I’ve missed you.” Tony mutters, utterly serious, despite his current state of drunkenness.

Gordon pulls away, running his hands through his hair. Tony begins to think that he’s done something wrong, that his missing him has offended him (which would be bad, very bad, and would take another few strange concoctions to block that memory) but Gordon grasps his hands firmly, like a very odd double handshake

“You can’t mean that, I mean, you’re drunk out of your mind.” Gordon releases his hands and goes back to running his hands through his (very nice and soft) hair. 

“You don’t know what you’re- I don’t-” he sighs, falling onto the sofa.

Tony somewhat understands what he’s trying to say and shakes his head, “You’re really, really silly. You know that?” he says, and falls onto the sofa beside Gordon.  
“in what way?” he says, and ,Tony flips to face him.

“Don’t you know that not very undrunk people are not very distruthful and stuff?” Yes, Tony is definitely sure that he’s explained that in the most eloquent way possible.

“Undrunk, I love that word, the best word in the English dictionary.” Gordon snorts.

“It’s that thing that I dis-am and have un-been for tonight” Those are surely words, definitely.

“You’ve been dis-un-drunk for as long as I’ve known you” Gordon chuckles and Tony grins back.

“Yes, I’ve un-not have”


End file.
